


Set the World Down

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Back Pain, Back rubs for head/shoulder pain, Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: Harold is good at many things. Working too hard is one of them. Letting someone take care of him is not.Good thing John is persistent.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 7
Kudos: 95
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Set the World Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProblemWithTrouble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProblemWithTrouble/gifts).



It's rare for Harold to dive deep into a project these days. Balancing the numbers and his various identities takes up most of his time, occupies most of the space in his brain, leaving little free for the work that consumed him throughout the vast majority of his life. But there are exceptions to every rule Harold has ever believed about himself, including this one. He gets a day off and takes advantage, and he doesn't realize how far he's fallen into his code until he reaches for his mug again and finds a cool, damp glass in its place.

"I'm cutting you off," John says, unfazed by the glare Harold shoots his way. "Time for you to drink some water."

Narrowing his eyes further, Harold says, "I'm not a plant, Mr. Reese," slipping into old, habitual formality with his irritation.

"No, but I've lost count of how many cups of tea I've brought you over the past few hours, _Harold_ , and I'm pretty sure that means it can't be healthy." John looks far too satisfied with himself, sprawled in the armchair Harold keeps in his study just for John, lips curled in a smug grin. It is most infuriating, and if Harold were a pettier, more immature man, he'd refuse the proffered beverage, perhaps even fling it in that smirking face.

But he _is_ thirsty. Not breaking from his glare, Harold drinks, scowling at John over the rim of the glass. John's grin grows even more pleased, the ridiculous man. The water is cold and crisp, regrettably not tea, and, to Harold's pride's dismay, refreshing. As it travels down his parched throat, more of the world filters in—the dry soreness of his eyes behind his glasses, the darkness outside the apartment, the stiffness in his bones. Stiffness that, once he takes note of it, becomes something else. Something worse.

Oh, he has made a terrible mistake today, hasn't he?

Pain, he's learned, thrives on attention. It's like some sort of sentient creature that feeds on being noticed. A heating pad against his lower back, another at his hip—John's handiwork, no doubt; Harold certainly didn't put them there—has kept some of the slavering beasts at bay, but his neck is another story. He vaguely remembers having a third heating pad against it earlier, but it kept slipping down, so he'd put it aside in irritation. Someday, perhaps, he will learn not to do such foolish things.

Every damaged muscle in his neck has gone tight and cramped, and the rest of his upper body has joined in on the fun. Searing discomfort radiates like a spiderweb across his upper back, from shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, clenched and hard. He tries rolling his shoulders, and winds up biting back a hiss, or perhaps an undignified whimper, his glass nearly slipping from his newly distracted fingers.

John's face falls. "Everything okay?" he asks, leaning forward, intent, ready to leap into action.

Harold doesn't want to reply, but a lack of response would be just as telling as a _no_. "Yes," he says, but he's not. Even his head hurts, a dull, tense throbbing, worst at the base of his skull, its tendrils, reaching, creeping, snaking over his brain, clenching around his forehead and face. Not a migraine, but just as sickening, curdling the water and sencha sloshing in his stomach. He sets down his glass and rubs at his neck with cool fingers, at muscles gone taut as steel and nearly as unyielding, knotted and furious at his behavior.

This time, Harold can't help clenching his watering eyes shut, or his small, stifled murmur of pain.

"I knew I should've made you get up before now," John says, and Harold hears him stand and approach, then a broad, warm hand settles between Harold's shoulders. It feels like heaven, a small and simple point of kindness amid a cruel maelstrom Harold suspects would be best-described with metaphors involving fire. "The one time I listen when you tell me _not_ to do something."

"Yes, that's quite a rarity, isn't it?" Harold lets out a laugh—quickly truncated, cut off by an involuntary, "Mm," as pain rattles through his skull and reverberates down his spine. He grips at his neck, and John shushes him and strokes his back, moving across Harold's body, while a cold, wet canine nose nudges Harold's free hand. Harold follows the line of Bear's long muzzle up the curve of his head, and scratches behind Bear's ears.

"Let me help you out." John bends down and presses a kiss to the crown of Harold's head. "Stop saving the world for a little bit. Let someone take care of _you_ for an hour or two."

"I'm not saving the world this time," Harold retorts, not quite hiding how much his hackles have risen, even as he leans into the strength of John's hand. "This was..." He waves toward the screen full of code, then settles his hand back on Bear's head. "Pure self indulgence."

"Uh huh," John says, sounding unconvinced. "What are you working on?"

"A new OS—an operating system," Harold replies. "I haven't done any major projects since I finished The Machine, and I was starting to feel...a tad bit rusty. I don't know if I'll ever release it, but if I do, I'm considering making it open source, like Linux, so other people can look at the code and modify it as they desire...and for better anonymity for myself, of course. It's getting trickier to find someone to pretend to have my skills these days and get away with it, but maybe if people are scrutinizing the code instead of the developer..." He pauses, considering. "I don't know. The logic was sound a few hours ago. A bit less so now, but...I suspect I shot myself in the foot with the whole social media thing."

John stays quiet for a moment, then says, "I'll just pretend I understood more of that than just the anonymity part."

Harold chuckles, and it _hurts_. His stifled grunt is met with a matching whine from Bear. "Your partner is a nerd, John." The words come out shaky and strained. "Don't be surprised when he says nerdy things."

"Well, then." John kisses Harold's head again, and nuzzles Harold's hair with his nose. Harold smiles to himself, a glow of affection temporarily overpowering the pain. "Stop being a nerd for an hour or two—" Fabric rustles, and something rattles, like it's been pulled from a pocket, and John dangles a bottle of pills in front of Harold's face. Harold accepts it; he'd be a fool not to, he suspects, in this state. "—and let me take care of you."

Despite the wisdom of it all, and John's gentleness, Harold's queasy stomach twists with distaste. He knows what John is offering: Not only narcotics, but also a back massage, his hands working into Harold's scarred and vulnerable flesh. Harold grits his teeth, and the tensing of the muscles creeps into his neck, his head, his aching everything. Perhaps a heavy sigh would be less painful? He gives it a try.

It still hurts.

"You let me do this," John says, "and I'll make you one more cup of tea."

Harold perks up. Tea. Such a small, insignificant thing, but the thought of it breaks the holding pattern in his head. "You drive a hard bargain," he says, and he saves his progress and starts shutting down his computer.

"I just know how to bribe you," John teases. "You're very caffeine-motivated."

"You say that like I'm our canine companion." Standing is going to be an adventure, Harold realizes quickly. He goes ahead and tosses down a pill, then grips the arm rests of his chair. Nothing for it but trying. With a deep breath, he takes care of the easiest part—rolling his chair back from the desk.

John moves with him, automatic and easy. "Not a dog. Just a...very particular bird."

Harold huffs out a stifled laugh. Grateful for John's terrible sense of humor—his affinity for bird comparisons is such a welcome distraction—Harold starts pushing himself up, slow and easy. Careful. He takes a deep breath and stands—and, oh, oh god, he thought the fire metaphors were appropriate before, but this...

"I've got you," John says, catching Harold as he stumbles from the sheer force of the pain, while Harold lets loose a string of creative curse words under his breath. He shouldn't have pushed himself up with his arms, but what other alternative is there when the body doesn't work as it should? Oh, he will never figure this corrupted system of his out.

But, somehow, John seems to have done it, steadying Harold on his feet without straining or aggravating already-furious muscles. "There we go," John says, letting go as Harold takes a halting step forward, then another. "Back rub?"

Harold nods, and regrets it. "Yes." But there is another matter that urgently needs his attention first, thank goodness, a welcome delay for the inevitable. "Bathroom first, though."

"I'll go get everything set up." John wraps his arms around Harold—he is such an affectionate lover—and presses a kiss to Harold's cheek. "See you in the bedroom."

After a slow trip under Bear's concerned eyes that takes far longer than it should, Harold deals with his body's least painful demands, then lingers. _Delaying the inevitable_ , he thinks again, flossing thoroughly, brushing his teeth, moisturizing. Delaying the inevitable. Anything to keep from having to place himself in another's hands.

Which is utterly unfair to John, but that doesn't stop Harold from making a futile attempt at loosening his muscles himself. Careful stretching and rolling his shoulders, unsurprisingly, does not work, nor does bending his body. The pain spikes, harsh and insistent, refusing to be ignored—or relieved.

Perhaps a hot shower? No, John is waiting for him, and it might not help besides.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Harold faces the reality: Much as he is loath to accept any assistance, John's efforts _will_ help him, in ways he simply cannot help himself anymore. And is there any harm in permitting this? He'd never judge John for pursuing relief from pain—would encourage it, actually. Why should he censure himself for the reverse?

All the evidence Harold has gathered over the years shows John _wants_ to help, is eager and grateful for the opportunity to ease someone's troubles, and aches when denied the chance. Especially when it is Harold he cannot help. He is deeply hurt by Harold's pain, deeply hurt when he can do nothing for it. Why should the both of them suffer further?

But it's not nearly that simple. If only it was. That's the biggest problem with life, Harold thinks, rubbing at his eyes. None of it is _simple_.

Outside, Bear whines and paws at the door. Damn. If Bear is getting impatient, odds are so is John. Harold calls out, "I'll be there in a moment, Bear," and gives his back and shoulders one last optimistic, futile stretch, then forces himself to accept the reality—he cannot fix this on his own. Without John around, he'd be looking at an entire night lost to pain, perhaps even the next morning or day as well. It will be better for everyone—not only him, but John, Bear, and the numbers they help as well—if he is rested and in minimal pain.

Bear greets him with a wagging tail and a lick to the hand, and falls in step with him. Rubbing his neck along the way, Harold trudges to the bedroom, ready to face his fate.

John is perched on the bed, patient, expression neutral—yes, rather like Bear, Harold thinks. He's traded his jeans for his pajamas, drawstring trousers that match his thin charcoal tee, and holds a small bottle of clear oil in his hands, rolling it back and forth between them. There's a chair beside him, the simple—cheap—wheeled desk chair John picked for himself, one with a narrow rod that even Harold can easily straddle holding up the back.

As Bear trots over to his own bed and settles in, John spots Harold, and his eyes light up with so much fondness it makes Harold's heart turn over. Helpless to do otherwise, Harold smiles, and John smiles back.

"Someone's a little overdressed." John sets the bottle on the nightstand and reaches out, as Harold steps between his widely spread legs. "You just don't know how to take a day off, do you, Harold? Even when your Machine gives you one."

Harold can't help a laugh. "And you do?"

He lets John tug his shirttails from his trousers, lets John undo his buttons when his tired hands start to fail him, lets his hands fall to John's shoulders. Lets John's strong body steady his own.

"You might have a point," John says, with a sheepish, fleeting grin. When the last button slips open, John presses his hands to Harold's chest, runs them down Harold's torso to the small of his back, fingers splayed wide and warm and steadying through Harold's thin cotton undershirt. It feels good, comforting, and Harold lets out a small, involuntary sigh that seems to spur John on.

John's hands roam over Harold's back in uneven spirals and strokes, probably wrinkling his shirt horribly. It doesn’t require this much contact to slide up someone’s undershirt, Harold thinks, and when John does, there is certainly no need for John to trail his callused fingers across freshly bared skin. Harold cannot bring himself to care about necessity. He _hurts_. And John keeps going, sending pleasant shivers through Harold's body, a wonderful contrast to the pain.

"How are things down here?" John asks, stroking Harold's lower back.

"Good," Harold replies. It aches, but it _always_ aches. The same goes for the hip John cups next, the damaged joint perpetually discontent.

"Here?"

"As good as it ever is." John's frown deepens, and Harold slides a hand up to John's face, cupping his cheek. "I'm afraid there are some things your kindness cannot help," he says, looking deep into John's sad blue eyes. "Wounds that simply run too deep."

John—just barely—looks mollified. "Okay," he says. "So, neck, upper back?"

Harold bites his lip, his stomach twisting, then forces himself to reply. "Yes. And my shoulders, and...and I have a bit of a headache, too."

"Okay," John repeats, nodding, the briefest hint of guilt showing on his face, and Harold strokes John's stubbled cheek with his thumb. _You are not the one at fault here_ , he'd say, if there were even the tiniest chance the words would have an effect. John averts his eyes, and turns his attention to Harold's fly. "Let's get you more comfortable."

Considering what's coming, Harold's not sure that's possible. But he allows John to help him out of his clothes anyway, then sets his glasses on the nightstand and climbs gingerly onto the chair, while John takes care of putting his clothes away.

Without John close by to distract him, the spasms creep back to the forefront of his mind. If he can think of something else...

Harold draws in a slow breath, exhales it just as slowly, and starts reciting the digits of pi in his head. His eyes clench shut. Goodness, his back hurts. His neck hurts. His head. He breathes through it all, and keeps counting, whispering the numbers aloud by the time John says, "Hey," and rests a hand lightly on Harold's shoulder.

Harold's eyes flutter open, and he finds John crouched before him, looking at him with gentleness and concern in his eyes. He tries to hide the pain and hope and defeat from his own and likely fails miserably, and John's gaze softens further.

"I'm going to take care of you, okay?" John presses a quick, sweet kiss to Harold's parted lips. "I promise."

A flare of suspicion, entwined with annoyance, bursts to life in Harold's chest, more habitual than anything. He tamps it down without mercy. This is _John_. No other still-living soul has earned his trust, his permission, as completely as John. His fool of a brain needs to learn to be more charitable when it comes to John. "I know," Harold says, words coming out strained. "You're quite good at it, my love."

"So there's nothing to worry about." After another kiss, John grabs the bottle of oil from atop the nightstand and sits down on the bed behind him. With a dizzying, sickening swoop of the stomach, Harold thinks of all John will see back there, of how close John will be. It's the perfect opportunity for close scrutiny, for judgment, for learning.

Except what is there to learn? John knows how he was injured—Harold never even had to tell him. John has already seen his scars, has touched them, kissed them. And John knows scars and the body nearly as well as any physician, had to understand them for his previous career. Besides, John adores him, _respects_ him. There is nothing to fear here.

 _You're being ridiculous, Harold_ , he tells himself. _And I would very much appreciate it if you'd stop_.

The cap to the bottle snaps open, and Harold inhales sharply, nervousness not vanishing despite his self-reassurance and castigation. He catches the scent of vanilla on the air, sweet and heady. Some of the tension fades from his body, though not nearly enough of it.

"You know, lavender's supposed to be more relaxing," John says.

"That's precisely why I'm not fond of it," Harold says. "False advertising—for me, anyway. It's the same with chamomile tea. Everyone promises it'll relax, and yet for me it's almost completely ineffective. If they worked, I might be a fan, but since they don't...besides, I prefer the smell of vanilla."

"It does smell pretty good," John says, and Harold can hear the fond smile in his voice. He kisses the back of Harold's head. "I'm gonna get started now."

A trickle of oil hits Harold's left shoulder, and he jumps slightly, startled. John shushes him and apologizes, and Harold forces himself to breathe. The liquid keeps flowing, slow and meandering and fragrant, winding along Harold's skin. John draws the stream across Harold's shoulders, letting it fall where it wants, and Harold follows it with his mind as it travels down the column of his spine, the curves of his shoulder blades, down and down, the cool liquid sensation disappearing over some scars, intensifying near others. Small shivers run through him, settling in his nerves, in his belly.

Then, John touches him.

Broad, warm palms splay against Harold's back, still and steady. Harold tenses, and John shushes him again. "I've got you," John says, in that quiet rasp of his, and starts to move, putting barely any pressure on Harold's screaming muscles as he spreads the oil over Harold's skin. "I'm not going to hurt you. I know what you need."

"John," Harold says, that lone syllable shaky and weak.

"I know." John kisses the back of Harold's head again, but doesn't stop moving his hands over Harold's back. "Just breathe," he says, and Harold does. "Just let go," he says, and Harold tries. John knows he's not used to being touched. John knows he is in pain, has probably even guessed the level of it. John knows him. "I've got you."

And he knows John. John would hurt himself, would use every trick he's learned about inflicting maximum agony upon someone on himself before he'd ever deliberately hurt Harold.

"I've got you," John repeats. "Let me help you." Then, barely audible, he whispers, "Please."

The tone of John's voice cuts deep into Harold's heart. All John wants to do here, needs to do here, is help. After another breath, Harold nods once, and leans back slightly, into John's strong, waiting hands. John knows him. John would never hurt him. This _will_ hurt, yes, at times, but only to heal. It would take a great deal of malice on Harold's part to drive John to harm him, and just the thought of adding another scar to John's collection makes Harold feel ill.

It is _terrifying_ to know someone so well, and to know that someone knows him as well as he knows them. But that knowledge also brings proof. John will not hurt him on purpose.

"I trust you," Harold says, and, this time, John is the one to freeze. If he could turn his head, Harold would flash him a reassuring smile. "I know you'll take excellent care of me."

It takes John a moment to collect himself. When he does, he says, "I'll do my best."

John's fingers push deeper—just slightly—roaming over the expanse of Harold's back. Seeking. If there is a problem, John will find it. Harold lets his eyes fall shut, then immediately clenches them tight and hisses when John presses on a tender knot.

"Sorry," John says, and Harold holds his breath until John moves on. John chases down the others, analyzing every spot that makes Harold gasp or flinch, likely committing them all to memory.

It's not a casual process, Harold knows, rubbing the back of someone as badly injured as him. All of it is interconnected, every damaged and undamaged inch of flesh tied together in an intricate web of torn and intact nerves, scarred and unmarked skin, pinned and unbroken bone. And it's unlikely that John will do irreparable harm by accident—not a man with as much control as John—but John would never take that chance. Not with him. Harold is too precious to him. John would never deliberately hurt someone he loves.

When John has finished his analysis, he turns his attention to the places that didn't hurt, deepening the pressure, kneading the muscles with great care. His strong, callused fingers are so attentive, so kind, so _good_. The touch seeps into Harold's brain, spreads through his body, melding with the smell of vanilla on the air, a potent combination. As slowly as the motion of John's hands, Harold starts to relax, slipping into a dreamy daze.

It's easier, then, when John targets that first knot, a white-hot spot of tenderness under Harold's left shoulder blade. It still hits like a spark to the skin, like a blistering knife stabbing through Harold's back, making him gasp and try to pull away, but then it lets go, and, oh.

 _Oh_.

"Oh my god," Harold slurs, a wave of pleasure and indescribable _relief_ overpowering the pain. "Oh my _god_."

"Yeah." John keeps rubbing at the spot for a while, kneading it until the knotting is nothing more than memory, then moves on, avoiding the other points of pain until he's sure Harold's ready.

Another knot comes untied. Another spasm releases its hold. Then another, and another, each one spreading another wave of calm through Harold's body. Each one making it a little easier to let go, to set down the world, to let himself be cared for.

He does not deserve John—not in the slightest.

Periodically, John checks in, ever attentive and cautious. Harold's answers grow steadily less coherent, his last verbal one, "No complaints."

"Good," John says. "I'm glad."

After that, John goes quiet, the slide of his hands over oiled skin, the whisper of air through the vents, soft breaths and Bear's snores and the resting city outside the only notable sounds in the world. His fingers work into Harold's back, into drawn shoulders that soon droop, into Harold's ever-aching neck, leaving mostly quiet bliss in his wake. Throughout it, Harold cannot hold back occasional tiny moans, doesn't bother to try. He loses track of time, loses himself, melts over the back of the chair. Distantly, in the corner of his mind that's still capable of thought, he wonders why on earth he ever resisted _this_.

The pain lets go.

Not all of it. Never all of it. Harold is never pain-free, likely never will be. But the pains that can leave him do, evaporating into nothing worthy of attention. John's hands chase the throbbing ache from Harold's skull. They knead the tightness from his shoulders. They loosen the merciless grasp of pain on his back, upper and lower, finding knots of tension Harold didn't even realize were there and vanquishing them all.

Harold floats in the sensation, drifts in the relief and calm that's turned his battered nerves to honey, not fighting the urge to feel purely _good_. It's exhilarating and soothing simultaneously, blissful, peaceful, freeing. Nothing can touch him in this state—nothing but John.

After an eternity, John speaks again, saying, "You should let me do this more often," the sound of his voice filtering neatly into the sound of his hands working into Harold's shoulders. "Make you feel better."

It takes a great deal of effort not to say, _I don't deserve it,_ the slow, relaxed feeling suffusing him nearly as effective a truth serum as any drug. "Perhaps," Harold says instead, the simple, noncommittal word coming out drowsy. Surely an occasional moment of respite is acceptable, isn't it? "You really are—" John's incredible hands find a spot that makes Harold groan, low and deep. "—quite exceptional at this."

"Just want to make you feel good," John says. He drops another kiss on Harold's head, and gives Harold's shoulders a squeeze, before sliding his hands up to Harold's head. He rubs Harold's scalp, temples, even forehead and jaw, melting Harold's brain. Harold slips into a near-doze, exhaustion and calm joining forces—he doesn't even try to resist.

Eventually, John's hands go still, and his soft voice urges Harold back to near-alertness. "Need me to keep going, or..."

The selfish part of Harold's mind wouldn't care if John kept touching him forever. But he does feel much better, and his eyelids are as heavy as his lax muscles. "Mm, no, thank you. I think it might be time for a nap, actually," he says.

"It's after midnight," John points out, with a chuckle.

"Oh." Harold hadn't even noticed. "Perhaps proper sleep, then, considering the hour."

John laughs again, and he kisses the back of Harold's neck, on the worst of the scars there, and Harold's heart quavers pleasantly instead of tensing. "Good," he says, his breath warm on Harold's skin. "Let's put you to bed, then."

He helps Harold stand on quivering legs, and Harold leans into him, wraps his arms easily around John. With another laugh, John says, "Wow, you're just a nice, melted puddle of Harold, aren't you?"

"A bit," Harold replies, chuckling himself, as John guides him into a hug. He feels good inside, lighter, freer than he has in far too long. Eagerly, he pours himself into the embrace, maximizing contact with John's long, strong body. "Thank you. You are...too good to me, my darling."

"You deserve it." John kisses Harold's temple, his forehead, and urges him down onto the bed. "Get some rest, Finch. That tea I promised will be there when you get up."

John steps back, and disappointment flares briefly to life in Harold's chest. "Oh." He captures John's hand in his, entwining their fingers, and John smiles at him like he's the center of the world, possibly the universe. The disappointment fades away. "Will you be joining me?"

"In a few minutes." John squeezes Harold's hand, then pulls away. "Won't be long."

"Alright." Harold slides to his side of the bed and lies down, marveling at how easily he moves, luxuriating in it with a wide stretch before settling in. How long has it been, he wonders, since he felt like this? Once he's fully comfortable, he speaks again, saying, "Love you. Don't—" A yawn interrupts him. "Don't dawdle."

"Wouldn't think of it." John's smile grows even wider. "Love you, too, Harold. See you soon."

Harold allows his eyes to fall closed, and he basks in the contentment. Oh, yes, he will sleep well tonight. Then there will be tea in the morning, and, knowing John, likely an elaborate breakfast as well. Whether or not there will be more time for his project is up to The Machine, or perhaps, more accurately, humanity.

But there _is_ time for rest now. More quickly than he has in longer than he can remember, Harold drifts off. The familiar sounds of John confirming their safety, then undertaking his evening routine lull Harold deeper and deeper into his doze, until he finally falls asleep.


End file.
